


Hungry Ghosts

by Taste_of_Suburbia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Burns, Communication Breakdown, Contemplation, Dark Castiel, Falling In Love, Fire, Hallucinations, Horror, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Romance, Torture, Traumatized Dean Winchester, VAST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_of_Suburbia/pseuds/Taste_of_Suburbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel comes back in a less than usual appearance and ends up causing the breaking of his charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hungry Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for depictions of torture, extensive injuries, PTSD and Dark Cas in a portion of this, but not the entirety. Slight diversion from canon in Season 4. Finally getting some stuff edited.   
> _Soundtrack:_ Title and lyrics come from VAST’s ‘Touched’

_~I looked into your eyes and saw_   
_A world I wish I was in_   
_I’ll never find someone quite as_   
_Touched as you~_

 

Dean Winchester has never been a stranger to fire. 

It’s one of his earliest memories, a brutal memory of his mother’s death, a causative of his father’s grief. He can still hear after all these years the desperate sound of his father’s voice, commanding him to take his brother and run. It’s fire that brought him to where he is now, that forced him to become a hunter in the first place. 

It was a fire of desire and need to pull Sam out of college life and convince him to go on the road with him. Dean’s sacrifice for Sam, one made out of nothing but love, was marked by fire as well; he knew he would burn in hell, for the next year it was all he could think about. The clock seemed like a living, breathing being, time ticking down loudly so Dean couldn’t ignore it when he needed a goddamn break, when it was all he could do not to break under Sam’s endless scrutiny that his brother merely labeled as concern. The flames seemed to reach out for him even then, smothering him when he tried in vain to sleep, and when he did he would often scream himself awake when the hellfire touched him, unforgiving, like Sam used to as he dreamed a memory of his girlfriend burning, resigned to her death, on the ceiling. 

Dean would be a fool if he ever believed the perpetual fire of his life would ever leave him alone. The flames would follow him everywhere he went, taunting him, forever trying to claim him. If it wasn’t hell trying to take him back, it would be the loss of his parents, the bitter fire of grief that consumed his father after their mother’s death. 

Sam’s anger at him giving up because he didn’t realize that it was the only thing Dean could do. 

Whenever he thought about the fact that his father had given his own live to save Dean’s, there was nothing but a fire of rage, misery and self-loathing that took him over so completely it was all he could do to remain breathing. A second chance at life Dean didn’t deserve, all these years wasted with his numerous failures to protect Sammy. 

Fire. He can’t forget it and he can’t escape it; in some ways it feels like all he’s ever known. 

And it’s fire that has now captured Castiel as its hostage and threatened never to let him go, as if Dean hasn’t had enough taken away from him, as if he could possibly deal with more. Suddenly, despite pushing himself to remain calm and sane, to get it together, Dean begins to _crack._

 

Castiel has endured enough damage to cause his steps and rational mind to falter, albeit briefly, because the angel’s resolve is far stronger than any amount of devastation the demons have inflicted upon him. This only convinces him that he is not ready to rebel against his eternal cause, to forsake his brothers and sisters, who would no doubt leave him with a great deal more damage to heal, for the wants of the righteous man. It is even likely he would not walk away from the onset of his rebellion, that he would perish beneath their deadly hands. 

No, it is not quite time to break away. First, he needs to train further as he patiently waits for the human to ask something of him, to plead the angel to join his and his brother’s cause. It is then and only then that Castiel will consider his options and prepare himself to take whatever action he deems necessary. 

He has mended his vessel’s broken bones, sewn back together skin without mere minutes of the battle’s end. He has put himself back together, as if he were a broken toy that needed to be fixed, a mangled doll centered on being stitched back up to perfection. He is fortunate he can heal his vessel, even though it does take time, long minutes that Castiel does not often possess. If it had been Dean fighting, alone or even alongside him, Castiel would not have allowed himself to fix even a small portion of the damage, let alone grievous injuries. Not that he doesn’t believe Dean would fight honorably, but even the angel doubted his ability several times during the seemingly never-ending fight, that there were simply too many demons, and that his chances of survival had perhaps expired.

Castiel has made it out relatively intact, though relatively is perhaps the incorrect word choice. He had wasted precious moments worrying about Dean, scared for his safety, still shaken by the number of demons that had taken him on all at once. 

It had taken him yet more time to retrieve his rational mind from the dark clouds of panic it had fallen into, assigning himself three goals and repeating them incessantly, determined to not stray from them. First he would heal himself, as much as he could without exhausting himself; it would take many more hours until he was in the same state as he was prior to the battle, but he would be patient. 

He realized he would not leave Dean alone for those hours; he would go to him regardless of how disheveled and terrible he might appear. 

Then, after he had healed all he could, he would slowly make his way to Dean. It would be useless for him to rush and then reach Dean, only to be in a state completely unable to protect him if need be. Then, for the next few days he would not let Dean muddle his head and his grace, he would focus on continuing to heal the damage that had been wrought upon his vessel, either staying with Dean or checking in on him repeatedly. 

Castiel sighs softly, nodding his head once in agreement with his decisions. As he brings himself back up to the surface of reality, he continues the process of healing, feeling the immense pain he had worked hard to push out of his awareness start to dissipate. He sighs again, this time in relief to have a great deal of pressure lifted off of him. He almost slumps to the ground but catches himself. 

Thinking of Dean, broken yet somehow still capable Dean, makes him strong and determined. 

Maybe his admiration towards his charge can be utilized sufficiently. 

 

Two hours must pass, an hour and a half spent healing and the half hour after that moving to a safer location in order to rest a bit, before he permits himself to go to Dean. He shouldn’t, he should be returning to heaven, but he goes weak in the knees and loses all proper resolve when he thinks of Dean in potential danger, and it’s then that nothing matters anymore _but_ the righteous man. 

The reaction as he suddenly appears in the living room is instantaneous. 

Dean nearly falls off the couch as his eyes land on Castiel, and he’s frozen in place for a moment before slinking away from the angel. He can see terror and shock in the hunter’s eyes, can see him fighting against fleeing the room and never looking back. The angel doesn’t understand this, it isn’t like Dean to want to run, it doesn’t suit Dean to seem this scared. 

He steps closer and Dean’s eyes widen further as they continue to take in the state of the angel. Castiel was wrong, he should have taken more time to repair the extensive burns he suffered; he must appear as a monster to Dean right now and that was never his intention. 

“Dean...”

Dean steps closer and a fraction of relief floods Castiel. If Dean had run, he had no idea what he would have done, it would have been an added instance of confliction Castiel would scarcely have been able to endure. The hunter blinks several times as he continues to take Castiel in, as if he’s just imagining the burns, as if all this couldn’t possibly be happening. 

Maybe Dean could handle this after all.

“Fuck, Cas. What the... what the fuck happened?”

“It’s alright, Dean,” he reassures, stepping closer to him so he can settle on the couch, but Dean doesn’t come near him; he hangs back, still staring at him in surprise and horror, much to Castiel’s chagrin. “The burns are not permanent, they should heal completely within the next few days. A week at the most,” he adds, feeling he shouldn’t hide anything from Dean. 

“Does it hurt?”

Dean seems genuinely worried and Castiel feels warm and touched at his charge’s concern for him. “I am fine, Dean,” although the second after he says it he abruptly realizes how truly exhausted he is. He’s about ready to sink deep down into the couch, claiming he merely needs to rest for only a little while, but Dean has grabbed his arm and is already dragging him into the bathroom. He follows obediently, feeling strange at having Dean force him to do something and not the other way around. 

He’s always admired Dean’s ability to quickly jump into action though, and he suspects it’s being put to adequate use currently. 

The pain must be showing on his features, and on second thought it is considerably weighing him down. He opens his mouth to say ‘I’m fine’ again but thinks better of it, knowing this is Dean’s trademark excuse, aware that his charge will feel the need to take care of him anyway, no matter what he may say or do. Castiel smiles at that as Dean takes a jar out of one of the cupboards. “Take off your coat,” he orders. 

“Dean...”

“Do it,” Dean barks, and after a moment of taking Castiel in, the burns that he can only see on his face and on the lower halves of his arms, where the sleeves are still pulled up, his face softens and there’s a pleading look accompanying his next words. “Please, Cas, let me help.” 

Castiel leaves the room for a moment mentally, honing in on the recent memory of becoming doused in fire. He had been too deep into battle to feel much pain, to realize his limbs were screaming with every movement. The only thing that drew him to the presence of fire was when he could no longer raise his arms; it was then that he set to work on blanketing the flames, patting himself down frantically, barely missing the swings of the two remaining demons. 

He had been so weak and tired and he didn’t know if he could move, let alone fight any longer. But he pushed on despite his body screaming for pause, a sudden surge of adrenaline overtaking him, and it wasn’t more than another minute before the demons were dead at his feet and he could finally stop moving, stop fighting and start assessing the damage done to his vessel. The pain in his vessel had slowed him down, and he wished he could forsake it completely and move onto another. 

But Dean knew this vessel, was fond of this vessel so Castiel would remain within it. 

“...Cas?”

He swam, difficultly, back to the present moment. Dean’s hazel eyes were wide in his face, his freckles on full display given how pale he had grown. His hand reached out and settled on his charge’s shoulder to reassure him. “It’s okay,” he told him again. “I am healing, though slowly enough for you to not be able to notice.” It looked like Dean didn’t believe him, though Castiel wasn’t quite sure how to make him believe. 

Dean troubled him in so many ways; in the past few months he had been exposed to emotions he had never experienced before, emotions he had no idea to describe and no idea how to name. The longer he spent time with Dean, the more he could feel himself changing, questioning what was truly important to him and often what would be best for Dean. 

If he told Dean these things he would never understand. He would be grateful, though most likely be unable to put it on display for Castiel’s benefit. In truth, the angel wanted nothing from Dean. He merely wanted Dean to recognize his genuine interest in the hunter’s affairs, wanted Dean to see that Castiel did care about him. 

But his charge would never understand the risks he was taking even at this very moment. 

He would look at the angel, expect him to help, except him to be on his side and Castiel would. More and more he felt that Dean could lead him anywhere and he would follow. A new, more hopeful and worthwhile cause to believe in and dedicate himself to. 

Dean could not possibly understand how torn he is at the moment, how angry and pleased and saddened he feels whenever he looks upon Dean, whenever Dean’s beauty and strength draws him in and he allows it to. He cannot think these thoughts without severe consequences, much less act upon them, yet he would destroy himself with every ounce of willpower contained within him if these things he is feeling were ever to cease. 

Once you have a taste of sin, you can never go back. 

Except Dean wasn’t sin, and he wasn’t corrupting Castiel’s soul as he was warned about. Dean Winchester was sweet and innocent and a force to be reckoned with, no matter his deeds in hell; he said things that Castiel did not understand but wanted more than anything to understand. The desire in him to know every little thing about Dean was too overwhelming to suppress. 

His charge would look upon him but never see the adoration held in his eyes. 

Just as Dean was glancing at him carefully now, unable to understand just how much Castiel wanted to remain here. 

He looked down and noticed Dean’s fingers were coated in some substance, and without questioning Dean’s intent, trusting him completely, he shrugged off his coat without another second of hesitation. Fortunately, he had not been wearing it as he was fighting, otherwise it would have been burnt to a crisp. As soon as Dean caught sight of his shirt underneath though, he grimaced, the scent of smoke suffocating them in the dimly-lit, cramped bathroom. 

He looked down and almost grimaced as well: his long-sleeved shirt was a dark black, very nearly burnt into tatters and hanging loosely off his frame; he pulled it off, happy to be rid of it. He was coated in dried blood and there was nowhere that he didn’t feel stiff; to call himself a mess would be an understatement. He was burned in more areas than he wasn’t, and as he looked down at himself he wondered with genuine surprise how his vessel was still moving, how it wasn’t a pile of ashes on the ground beneath him. He could feel himself healing but he wondered how this could even be healed. The skin was a deep, dark red or white at the areas receiving little damage and as dark as brown in other, less fortunate areas. It almost made Castiel nauseous, and Dean, a human... who knew how the sight was affecting him. 

Dean’s face blanched and he took a step further into the bathroom, away from the angel, swallowing rapidly and closing his eyes. The freckles stood out even more starkly on his face, and suddenly Castiel wished he had not come here at all, or rather, had told Dean forcefully to not try to help him. Something inside him snapped painfully, sending every particle of his being into a panic. 

The pain was more emotional than physical now, at knowing what he had stirred up inside his fragile charge. 

Castiel had spent much of his previous time healing himself, barely looking at the burns for more than a few moments at the most. He did not realize they were this extensive, and he should have thought twice at believing the human could handle the sight of him. Dean had seen many gruesome sights in his time, but his lifelong history of fire should have sent warning signs off in the angel’s head. 

Despite the need to continue on with his healing, it slipped from his mind as he shrugged his trench coat back on. “It’s alright, Dean.” He crouched down, slowly making his way over to his visibly trembling charge, who was now huddled on the ground, eyes wide, breath coming out in quick, short gasps. “Dean...,” he placed both his hands on the sides of his face, holding him, “listen to me. I am alright.” He shouldn’t have come here. How could he have thought appearing to Dean in this form would be suitable?

Dean was looking right at him, but while he might be on the floor beside Castiel, he was nothing but physically in the room with the angel. He was off somewhere else, oblivious to the comfort Castiel was offering to him, unaware of the promise he next made to remain with Dean, despite the risk, despite knowing he needed to leave. And suddenly a thought forms in Castiel’s mind, one that he instantly knows to be true, much to his own horror and dismay. 

Castiel’s burns are reawakening Dean’s worst memories of hell. 

His grip on him had been strong, unyielding and confident when he was moments away from pulling Dean out of hell. His mission had been the only thing he knew: rescue the righteous man. He had never been given a charge before, so indeed he had no clear insight into what would be expected of him. Perhaps whatever he was experiencing whenever he was in Dean’s presence was a result of him being Castiel’s charge; however, the angel felt it was something more. This alone should not have given him thoughts that he continues to contemplate of whether he should rebel and join his charge. 

The cause he fights for now is beginning to blur, and he realizes now that it had begun when he had watched the agonizing journey Dean was forced to endure to crawl his way up out of his very grave, the dirt pushing down on him, intent to hinder and eventually suffocate him. Trying to contact his charge had been worse: the hands Dean brought frantically to his ears, the screaming in his head for the piercing sound to cease, had both caused a sharp pang in the angel. 

Knowing Dean Winchester just a little more, day by day, has been both painful and somewhat a joy, if that is even the correct term to use. He would do anything in his power in order not to cause him pain; unfortunately, he already has on numerous occasions. He is causing the human pain even now, and even though Castiel may tell himself this situation is not entirely his fault, the thought and the guilt plague him still. 

The grip he has on Dean now is as fierce as it had been when he had dragged Dean back to Earth, but it is now for an entirely different purpose. He still needs to rescue Dean, but it is no longer his mission. Everything he is doing now is directly against his orders, everything he is contemplating at this very moment he can be sent back for, knowing he will never see his charge again. 

Dean is no longer a mission to him though, he is not some goal or a human he needs to persuade or force to do the bidding of Castiel’s superiors. Dean is a friend, a friend who cares about him and Castiel has never had someone care about him before. So even though he may know nothing about aiding Dean Winchester, he will not abandon him to what he has wrought upon him. 

Dean might be trapped inside his own memories, but he will never be alone while Castiel is present and aware. 

 

Dean’s always been a good swimmer; drowning was just never an option, especially with Castiel around. But right now, right at this moment, he feels like there is an incredible amount of water crowding in on him, slowly taking away his oxygen and sense of ease. Darkness is threatening to overtake him, his vision becoming blurry and starting to fade out starkly. 

Through it all, through his body heaving and gasping for breath, through the haze of panic and frustration at the weakness he is allowing himself to display, he can just make out Castiel’s eyes widening in his own panic. The angel comes closer and Dean wants to sink away; Dean’s always sinking away because it’s what he does, he can’t let himself accept that he needs help, that he’s breaking down in front of Cas. It’s all so much worse because he’s not only afraid that he’s slowly, suddenly dying, but he is terrified that this is happening while Cas is here. It’s more than just embarrassing. 

He’s shown enough weakness to Cas, enough of his faults have been put on display unwillingly for the angel to take in and try to alter, try to _fix._

Dean wants to sink away from his hands, from his concern, but he can’t move and he can’t help but lean into the touch when his hands grasp Dean’s own and his lips form words. It looks like he’s asking Dean what to do, how he can help and suddenly Dean can’t take anymore and he simply blacks out. 

_Poor Cas..._

He hopes he doesn’t go and do something drastic. 

 

Dean doesn’t remember much, the brief yet painful flashes of hell causing him to entirely lose track of reality, but he remembers that he wasn’t alone for any of it. He remembers someone pressed up next to him, touching him, lifting him up and his world had tilted dangerously, Alastair’s grin burned into his vision, but through the thick haze of the blood and the sharp laughter, he could sometimes hear bits and pieces of Castiel talking. 

He was probably dreaming it all, Castiel never had cause to remain with him if it didn’t support the _greater cause._ Castiel doesn’t know anything about humans, and he most certainly doesn’t know a thing at all about Dean. But even if Castiel wasn’t there, even if he was hallucinating that too, that doesn’t mean he didn’t cling to Castiel’s voice and presence as if it were life itself. It had been the same struggle as when he had pulled himself out of his own coffin, the same desperation to somehow make it back to reality, against all odds, and feel at least the slightest bit alive again. 

He hasn’t had hallucinations this vivid since he was in the ground, even if that’s not what they are at all. Dean knows they’re memories, he just can’t admit it most of the time. If Castiel knows, which is probably does, then good for him. Dean just really fucking hopes that he doesn’t know. 

So he clings to everything Castiel is to him in those hours or days or however the fuck long it ended up being. The angel brings with him a solace that seems to unendingly struggle to sink into his skin and startle him back to awareness. 

He fights even more because of the notion that Cas might be with him. 

He fights for Cas, because if he fights solely for himself the guilt will gnaw away at him later on, knowing he deserves this. Deserves to relive this.

Sam is never around to be worried, and even if he is around all he does is say that he knows Dean is having nightmares and if he thinks he can hide them from him, he’s a complete idiot. Dean doesn't try to pretend they don’t exist, he just doesn’t want to talk about them, and even if Dean were to talk about them, Sam would say he had to go run off with that demon skank anyway. 

So... ask Dean why he doesn’t bother again. 

Castiel is always there when he doesn’t want him to be, always stares at him so intently with those huge cerulean eyes that make Dean feel he’s being stripped down against his will. Sure, Cas rescued him and he will never stop thanking him for that and also hating him for it, because he deserved to literally rot in hell, but seriously, Cas has no right to look at him like he knows Dean. He doesn’t know Dean. 

He held onto Castiel’s reassuring words until the silence claimed him for good. One thing his memories could never rid him of was the echo of Castiel’s concern, forever a part of him. A memory he would take to the grave with him, no matter what.

 

Dean’s panic attacks taper off in the continuing days, and so do the burns marring the skin of Castiel’s vessel. He had assured Dean that they would not linger for longer than a few days, a week at the most and true to his words, the hunter watches them fade before his very eyes, immensely relieved. 

Castiel notices that Dean never talks about his attacks, whenever he brings up the subject he merely shrugs him off, something which pains him considerably because he wants nothing more than for his charge to open up on the memories that trouble him. He’s quite aware of Dean’s history of fire, but he had no idea the burns would affect the hunter so greatly, otherwise he would have stayed away for a few days until they had faded to barely noticeable marks. 

He had been incredibly weak, and if he had been able to heal his vessel than he would have done so, but he had been drained treating the other injuries he had sustained, and thus his head was too muddled to consider the affect his appearance might have had on Dean. 

Dean is strong and this doesn’t make him any less strong or capable, and Castiel wants him to see this so desperately but has no idea how to show him. There are a great many things the hunter does not understand, primarily things concerning Dean himself, and often the angel will engage in futile attempts to show him, though often grow frustrated at Dean’s lack of progress and in turn, frustrated at himself for losing patience so quickly. 

Castiel sighs, examining the now slightly pink, still healing skin of his vessel. Dean is sleeping peacefully on the couch he tries not to hover at, and he moves farther away, glancing out the window, not wanting to wake his charge but desperately wishing him to stir and wake of his own accord. 

“Cas?”

He turns and smiles, “Dean.” He walks closer, giving Dean ample time to put his barriers back up and even then, he leaves a foot of space between them, even though he does enjoy hearing the hunter’s complaints of a lack of personal space that the angel never seems to provide. Castiel smiles fondly at the thought; there are so many things about Dean, in Dean, that he admires, things that he can ponder and dwell in when he has nothing to accomplish at the moment or when he is missing his charge.

This leads Castiel to think about what his home is, since he never believed himself to have one and recently he has begun to pinpoint the exact emotion he has been feeling, something humans call homesickness. 

This is forbidden and yet so conflicting for Castiel; he should experience no emotion when thinking of or in the presence of Dean Winchester. He should expect a correct response from the human, one of respect for the angel’s superiority and importance, and perhaps also a small amount of fear, enough to keep Dean in his place, according to his superiors. 

After a few moments of close inspection, Dean quickly deciphers that Castiel doesn’t seem to be here for any pressing matters, and therefore locks himself in the bathroom, half hoping Cas will still be in the room when he comes back out again. 

Castiel watches him closely until he can no longer, worried when he tries to prevent the angel from coming in after him. He shouldn’t remain here, but even he knows that nothing could tear him away now. He should view Dean merely as the righteous man and show ample respect towards him, but he is not allowed to indulge the human in any way and Castiel knows this. Castiel knows that what he’s trying to form discreetly between he and Dean, the desires he has to comfort Dean, should have no true place within him. 

His superiors claim that the righteous man has no need to know or believe that he is a good and worthy person; they say that Castiel has no permission or time to convince Dean that he is on the right path. He is merely here to guide him and to make sure he remains on this path. 

Castiel does not understand this. 

He knows Dean is a tool, the sword of Michael, knows that Dean’s personality and goodness will dissipate when he commits to saying yes. He suspects he will miss Dean, though he tries not to think of future events, and also is aware that he will be forced to move on, to forget everything about Dean he so appreciated and respected. 

Perhaps most vital of all, he does not understand Dean, yet this is what makes his charge so intriguing to him. He cannot comprehend Dean’s lack of self-worth, his inane belief that he will fail in the end, the idea that tugs so fiercely at something inside Castiel that he did not deserve to be saved. Admiring how good and bright Dean’s soul is, it seems to Castiel that he is the only thing in this world worth saving. No one seems to recognize this, and the angel begins to suspect he is becoming corrupted by Dean, unwillingly of course, a little more each day. That the beauty of Dean’s soul and entire being is swaying him to remain by his side, to listen to what Dean has to say and consider his options when Castiel was never meant to have options. Dean seems to be the only bright and hopeful light in this dark world. 

But Castiel has no need to be thinking these thoughts. 

And he is deeply afraid of the consequences. 

 

The walls and floor are cold and the air is dank and hard to breathe in; there’s a fire nearby but it doesn’t warm him and it comes nowhere near to comforting him. He shrinks away from it, trying to better gauge his surroundings, recognizing this as hell but having no recollection of this as being a particular memory. His brow creases in confusion and frustration. 

He shrinks away further without meaning to, feeling ropes cutting into his wrists when he comes back to himself, hot breath on the back of his neck. He tries to turn around, crane his head to see behind him but he can barely move as it is, and there’s dried blood tainting the ropes around his wrists and it’s probably his and that’s probably why his hands hurt so fucking much right about now. 

There’s dark laughter, so low and so short that Dean can hardly hear it. He’s become more frantic now, but however much he tries to move he doesn’t get anywhere, and his hands only hurt more with each new wave of panic that shoots through him. He’s sweating and he’s shaking and he’s breathing hard, and the person or _thing_ that keeps on breathing against his neck is only making him more uncomfortable. 

And then there is sudden movement and Dean can’t feel a thing behind him anymore. Goosebumps break out over what seems to be the entirety of his skin, his body is so cold he feels as if he’s just been dunked in ice water, and there’s this strange tingling sensation on the back of his neck now. 

Dean figures he would have been better off not knowing; he imagines he would have been just fine sticking with Alistair’s presence here, or even another demon because nothing about any of this feels like Alistair. Five seconds later though and he wishes he was back in hell, being the teacher’s pet, carving under Alistair’s watchful eyes and immensely pleased grin. 

Cold blue eyes stare back at him though, and a monstrous grin that even rivals that of the demon he’s known for forty years. A grin he never imagined could be on this particular face, not in a million years. 

“Cas...?”

“Dean Dean Dean,” his name rolls across the angel’s tongue and Dean almost gags at how it sounds coming out of his mouth. This isn’t Castiel’s voice, it is but it’s been warped completely beyond recognition, and while typically Dean loves to hear Cas say his name, this is beyond unbearable. “Now I finally have you _exactly_ where I want you.” To see Castiel smile that deadly cold, densely malicious grin is a rude awakening, something that Dean never thought the angel could be capable of. 

What makes this all so worse is there’s those big blue eyes, staring straight into his soul, convincing Dean that this is Cas. This is Castiel’s true intention, this moment, staring down at Dean in this way. The eyes should be black, it would hurt less if they were, because all Dean can do right now is allow his barriers to be broken down as he stares up at those eyes, all too prepared to drown in them. 

“Cas... what?”

“That’s right, Dean.” Castiel crouches down to sit right in front of him, and Dean is so focused on him that he can’t even feel the brutal cold of the floor digging into his legs anymore. “You’ve got your angel, right here, and now you’ll always have him.”

Dean swallows, willing himself to focus, to piece back his broken soul one step at a time. His eyes widen as Castiel's fingers caress his cheek, an alarming cold settling into his skin and stretching out to every part of his body. He wants to scream at how fucked up this all is, at how this situation is the absolute last thing he ever expected to happen, but he keeps his mouth shut, trying to think of a way out of this, assuming that this is a dream and he’ll wake up real soon.

It doesn’t feel like a dream though, and the fear is all the more uncontrollable because of it. 

He trusted Cas, or at least wanted to feel like he’d always have his back, and now nothing hurts more than realizing he was wrong, that Castiel isn’t a friend. That he’s just another son of a bitch out to get him. 

“Tell me, Dean, do you like fire?”

The flames grow impossibly higher and closer, prickling against Dean’s face and he flinches, hand going up to his cheek before remembering he can’t, the ropes cutting into his skin harder. He bites back a groan and a curse, watches the angel’s face for any hint at what he might do next, already full well knowing it’s not gonna be good. 

This can’t be Cas, angels could never be resorted to this, and even if Castiel hates him, wants to be rid of him, he wouldn’t try to accomplish it in this way, would he?

This dark Cas that seems completely too real for comfort is doing things to him that he can’t cope with. 

Abruptly, there’s a brand new burning sensation in his wrists, radiating out towards the tips of his fingers that causes Dean to look down. With horror he realizes that fire is wrapped around them, peeling back layer after layer of his skin and it seems endless and Dean has to look away, swallowing hard, a scream ripping its way out of his throat, having as much to do with the look, _the smile_ on the angel’s face as the pain.

“Oh, Dean.” He responds, his eyes reflecting back the flames encasing his wrists, spreading down to the tips of his fingers and upwards simultaneously. Dean knows this isn’t real, but he can smell his own flesh burning and can see his skin reddening and yellowing and blackening, and he doesn’t know why the hell he isn’t puking his guts up right now or blacking out but he isn’t. Castiel’s malicious, gleeful eyes hold him in place and as far as Dean’s concerned, that’s all he can see at this point. “You just look so pretty on fire,” he continues. “I can’t seem to stop myself.”

Dean starts screaming again and suddenly there’s a sharp knife in the angel’s hands. He’s holding it as Alistair showed Dean how to hold it, like a paintbrush, treating it, _worshiping it_ so as to carve away everything that apparently doesn’t matter, yet everything that does. Everything that needs to be peeled away to reveal what’s really underneath. 

He should be used to this by now and he is, he’s been doused in hellfire beyond count, and he’s screamed at the agony of it. But Cas is here and he is the one with the blade in his hands, wielding it against him; he is the one burning him and enjoying it. Dean looks into his eyes and knows he is the angel’s pet, exactly as he was Alistair’s.

And nothing in existence could be more _painful._

Because it’s not his skin that’s screaming out for release at this point, it’s how Dean feels about Castiel, how Dean trusted Castiel, how many times Dean has screamed out a prayer in his head that Castiel would just look at him and touch him and tell Dean how worthy and beautiful he is. Not anymore though, all those silent desires have been obliterated. He can now only remember a fragment of Castiel before this moment, and somehow not even that matters because he’s screaming and crying, more like sobbing, and he’s breaking, shattering, unable to feel warmth at the memory of those big, blue eyes lighting up in curiosity, awe and adorable misunderstanding at something Dean would say. 

If it was Alistair before him, he could handle it. After all, he’s handled it for thirty years.

But Cas... Cas is supposed to be his retreat, the one face that can never be used against him. Castiel shouldn’t be tainted like this, he shouldn’t force Dean to forget everything he thought he once knew, that Castiel either stopped caring about him or never cared in the first place. Seeing Castiel like this is a whole new side to hell, a whole new side to himself that Dean doesn’t want to face. Doesn’t possibly have the strength to face. 

“Dean... so beautiful, so _perfect.”_ And suddenly Castiel is straddling him, knife pressed against his throat, grinning, laughing, staring at Dean and suddenly he understands. He is Castiel’s. 

He disrespected Cas, questioned his authority and Cas told him he would send him right back just as easy as he had pulled him out. Dean hadn’t known what to think of it at the time; sure, it terrified him, but he ended up shoving it to the back of his mind as soon as it appeared. 

He couldn’t think of Cas like this, the angel who had pulled him out of hell, the angel who he loves being around despite his apparent need for personal space, which isn’t true at all and he wonders if Cas knows this, if that’s why he never stopped appearing so goddamn close to him, knowing that the human can barely control himself. 

“Dean.” He’s pulled out by the drastic change in Castiel’s tone; when he threatened to send him back to the pit he sounded downright serious, but nothing like this. This just makes Dean shake his head in disbelief and grit his teeth in pain. “You okay? You spaced out for a minute there.” He wants to throttle him, wants to do anything but just sit here and take it as the flames inch up towards his neck, making him scream out in agonizing pain. “Not to worry though. I’ll keep your attention, considering we haven’t even gotten to the _fun_ part yet.” Dean shivers at that, mouth open to plead to him, to ask him why he’s doing this. 

Dean thinks better of it and sits back, welcomes the pain because maybe he does deserve it. He should have never been allowed to leave hell. It was his choice to be there, his choice to be tortured on the rack for Sammy. An angel’s realized his mistake, so now why shouldn’t he?

He’s screaming hoarsely and panting, straining against the cold metal pressed against his throat, tears leaking out of his eyes. Through it all, the angel he once thought was his is smiling that wide, immensely dark grin that captures his soul and holds it hostage tightly, threatening to never let go. He wants to tell Cas to stop, but the words catch in his throat and so does his next breath as the knife, glinting at him, cuts into his throat. 

He doesn’t see anything but blood, and he doesn’t hear anything but a laugh that echoes, that will haunt his dreams and waking moments for eternity, if this really is a dream, and before he knows it he’s already somewhere else, no longer on fire or choking on his own blood, just trying to find some way to breathe. 

The room is different. He’s on a soft surface, a bed, and Castiel is hovering above him, a look of deep concern in his eyes that Dean has never been graced with before. He freezes immediately, still heaving for breath, waiting for the flames to come back, waiting for Cas to do good on his promise. 

It never comes though, Castiel remains above him, watching over him in panic, something Dean never thought he was capable of. 

“Dean?”

The two look completely indistinguishable. Dean can’t stop thinking about that as he manages to slow down his heartbeat and draw in a decent, steady breath. He stares up at the angel intently, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable under his worried gaze, wondering just how much Castiel can see, just how much Castiel _knows._

“Are you alright?” His eyes are so blue and so big and all Dean wants to do is _believe_ but he _can’t._ How can he believe anything at all after...? Even if he’s conscious now, even if it wasn’t real, was a dream...?

Dean sits up quickly, startling Cas and causing him to back away on instinct. Dean can’t look at him anymore, can’t accept Cas as _this_ anymore, can’t feel anything but pain and this deep _deep_ sorrow that he’s scared won’t ever go away. He can’t even open his mouth to tell him to leave, and he feels so bad about it, sitting here and pretending he doesn’t exist. 

For Castiel, the scene is painfully frustrating and even more heartbreaking. He can feel the hurt radiating from Dean, from every essence of his being, weighing down his soul. He can see how scared the human is, how he doesn’t seem to trust him and he knows why that is the case. He should not have walked among the ruins of Dean’s memories, the deep dark recesses of his mind, but the angel has been fearful of his charge’s state of mind as of late, and this was the only thing he could think of so as to help Dean. 

The human’s complete refusal to look at him is breaking Castiel in a way he has never felt, and he loathes himself at the moment for only wanting to help Dean, yet in actuality causing him further pain that he would do or say anything to take away. 

Dean is human and as a result, fragile and susceptible to deep and sometimes permanent trauma, and Castiel has _broken_ him. 

“You know I would never harm you, Dean.” His voice is soft and calm, as if Dean will bruise further at his words if they are not spoken with great care. He should not be saying what he is about to say, but the human is more of a concern to him at the moment than his imminent reprimands and possible punishment. “You mean a great deal to me, and I want you to know this.”

Castiel wishes for nothing more than to hold Dean, to let Dean feel how warm and loving his touch can be. He wants to shower Dean with love and affection because he deserves nothing less, even if Castiel does not quite know how he would go about doing exactly that. He wants to tell his charge how beautiful he is to Castiel, how his soul is a thing to be worshiped. 

But he _cannot_ speak this; neither one of them are prepared for this. 

More than anything, he must give Dean time, time for him to come to the conclusion that the dream meant nothing, that it will only force Castiel to dedicate more time and energy towards his charge. It is a small price to pay for Dean’s smile directed at him once more. 

Cas settles a mere gentle hand on Dean’s arm, but his charge jerks away and puts as much distance between the two of them as he can. Castiel sighs, his entire vessel filling with an immense sorrow and sense of uselessness that physically weighs him down. He watches Dean as he turns his back and leaves, his head becoming heavy as lead at the sound of the door slamming shut and Dean’s car starting up outside. 

He can still feel Dean’s warmth in the sheets on the bed, and without allowing himself to consider that this may not be a proper moment to express his desires, he settles himself in the bed, curling up there and taking in Dean’s familiar scent and left over warmth. 

If only he could show him... show Dean how much he needs him to make his own existence worth something, that the human is the only one that can do this. The only reason why Castiel, angel of the lord, even considers falling at all.

**FIN**


End file.
